Corporeal Ghosts
by Ell Roche
Summary: Scars make you famous. Harry Potter's made him a hero, and Delphine Malfoy's made her a villain.


Title: Corporeal Ghosts

Pairings: Harry Potter/Girl!Draco Malfoy

Warnings: Post-DH, EWE, genderswap, minor violence, some angst, mentions several Death Eater crimes, permanent infirmity, and drama.

Note: This is sort of a repost. Details are in my profile.

* * *

Delphine Malfoy lay listlessly on the too thin mattress. Her hands clutched at the plain cotton sheets, fisting them until they started to tear; it didn't take much effort, because the sheets were old and worn. They were nothing like her own bedding, and exactly what she should become accustomed to.

In a post-war world, she didn't fool himself into thinking any of the Death Eaters would escape Azkaban or the Kiss.

Footsteps sounded down the hall: sharp, staccato, and she lazily sat up. Delphine wasn't in a hurry to die, but she had never been patient, and the Aurors had kept her waiting for what surely must be days now. Or perhaps it was weeks? She had lost track of how many meals the short witch with the pinched lips had brought her.

At least they were humane enough to feed her.

She held her bare feet just off the floor, remembering all too clearly how cold it was. And for whatever reason, she apparently wasn't allowed to have socks. Did the Aurors think that she would hide a wand in them?

Delphine's slender fingers picked at the plain white robes they had given her to wear, firmly pushing away all thoughts of wands—because she didn't have one anymore. The great Malfoy family, each without a wand. How pathetic. Her father's lost in the Battle Over Little Whinging, hers to Potter, and her mother's (which she had entrusted to her) burned to ashes in the room of broken things at Hogwarts.

Oh, how far, the Malfoys had fallen.

The footsteps bypassed her door, and Delphine stretched back out on the uncomfortable bed. It took more control than she would like to admit to prevent herself from flopping backwards. But Malfoys do not flop, or slouch, or anything of the like, and her posture was one of the few things she could control right now.

She would never carry herself like a Weasley—ever. She could picture the Weasel and Weaselette now, all freckled and safe; she hated them. They thought they were perfect, better than her. But Merlin-forbid if she didn't believe the Weasel himself would've found a way to get Death Eaters into Hogwarts if his parents' lives were at stake.

It wasn't like she hadn't tried to find another way! Delphine turned and punched the wall, grimacing as pain radiated up from her knuckles. She had spent almost all of her sixth year searching for a way to keep her parents safe. She hadn't found one, obviously. She had been a naïve fool to think she could outsmart the Dark Lord.

Maybe if the Death Eaters had taken just one more minute that night during sixth year, she wouldn't be rotting in a cell in the bowels of the Ministry. If Snape hadn't killed Dumbledore in her place, if she had lowered her wand sooner. . . . Delphine sneered and tore her thoughts away from the rambling quagmire that sought to possess them. She wasn't going to play pretend; that was a game for the weak.

Pushing up the left sleeve of her white robe, she stared at the Dark Mark. For the first time since she had been Branded, it didn't hurt, and hadn't since Potter killed the Dark Lord. It felt like dead flesh, or perhaps that wasn't entirely accurate. It felt like nothing—had no sensation at all—as if that part of her arm didn't even exist.

Delphine brushed her fingertips across it, feeling the bumps and ridges. The skull was gruesome, disgusting, ugly, and marred what had once been healthy skin. The contrast of the robe against her pale flesh just made her look paler and the Dark Mark blacker.

She wasn't sure why, but she had thought it would fade once Voldemort died. The bond between master and servant, she sneered, was broken. So, surely, the proof of unwanted servitude should have left with the monster.

For a moment, she wanted to laugh, but no sound escaped her throat.

Shoulders shaking, whether from laughter or despair even she didn't know, Delphine allowed the sleeve to slip from her grasp and cover the hideous brand once more. But even though she couldn't see it, and even though she couldn't feel it, that didn't mean that she would ever forget it was there.

Not even an _Obliviate_ would accomplish that. It would only make her forget it existed until she next saw it, which was inevitable, unless her arm suddenly fell off. Delphine cradled her arm to her chest at the thought, horrified by its morbidity. She was vain enough to know that she would rather have the Dark Mark her entire life than lose her arm.

Besides, it's not like her life would last much longer anyway.

Several Death Eaters had died in the final battle, and the Ministry—no matter how slow and unorganized and inept they were—had to be almost done with the surviving Death Eaters' trials. She tried not to think about her parents' fates, because she couldn't bear to think that it had all been for nothing—that she had taken the Mark only for them to die anyway.

Her lips pinched together and her chest hitched, but not a single sound escaped. In a twisted way, it would be the worst kind of irony, wouldn't it? How many times had she made fun of Potter for not having any parents? She couldn't remember. Perhaps her cruel words would turn on her and she would lose both of her parents. At least Potter wouldn't be as juvenile as she had been, or as vicious. Potter would never mock her for losing her family.

When Delphine was feeling particularly whimsical the last few . . . however long she had been here, she imagined that they were saving her trial until later because her sins were so few. She had never killed anyone, never tortured anyone, and she didn't honestly believe that would make the slightest bit of difference.

In the eyes of the wizarding world, she was a Death Eater, and that was synonymous with evil—even to her.

She imagined that lying about Potter's identity in her manor would earn her freedom, but that life debt had already been repaid. She stared down at her tingling hand, memories of roaring fire and smoke surfacing, and Potter hauling her up onto his broom and flying them to safety. Delphine stared at her pale hand, skin smooth and unblemished. She still wasn't sure if she would have saved Potter if their positions were reversed.

Perhaps, perhaps not.

Shrugging, Delphine shoved the thought away. It didn't matter. There was no life debt on either of their sides. That wouldn't save her from the Kiss.

Two sets of footsteps sounded down the hallway outside her room, but they were coming from the wrong direction, so she paid them no attention. It was just whoever had passed a while ago escorting another prisoner no doubt.

". . . the Malfoy girl?"

Someone chuckled and Delphine sat bolt upright in an instant, ignoring the way the robe pulled at her shoulders from the rapid shift in position.

"I don't know. Lucius, the bastard, went to Azkaban over a week ago. The kid's mum was . . ."

Was what? _Was what?_

Delphine leapt off the bed, but her feet got tangled in the long robe, and she crashed to the floor. She landed on her elbow and gritted her teeth against the pain. It didn't matter. She had to know what had happened to her mother! But by the time she got untangled and made it to the door, the hallway was silent.

Hair, blonde and dull, swayed forward and shielded her eyes. She leaned back against the door, pulled her knees to her chest, and wrapped her arms around them. Was she . . . ? She gulped and buried her face against her knees.

The first part of what she had overheard was a mercy more than anything. Without the Dementors, Azkaban was just a prison. It would be boring, true, but her father wasn't dead, and that was better than she could have hoped for. Subconsciously, she had already given her father up as dead. But her mother . . . she was the only person that loved her. Her father might be proud of her accomplishments, that Delphine was his heiress, but she knew that what little love remained in her father after her grandfather's death belonged to her mother.

Her mother, on the other hand, loved her more than her father. She was the one who had tucked her into bed, read her stories, and taught her magic. Most pureblood women let house-elves raise their children, but she hadn't. Delphine figured it had something to do with losing so much of her family: Andromeda was banished, Bellatrix and Sirius were in Azkaban, Regulus was dead, as were her parents and aunts and uncles.

Delphine was selfishly glad that the Black family had fallen to ruins, because it meant she was the center of her mother's world. She actually loved her, instead of tolerating her as Parkinson's mother, or Crabbe's mother, or many other pureblood witches did. And unlike the Weasel, she hadn't been forced to share her mother's love with any siblings; it belonged to her and her alone.

Now Delphine didn't know what had happened to her mother. Had she been sent to Azkaban? Kissed? Set free? She could only futilely hope that it was the latter, because if she were gone, no one would love her. Hysterical laughter sounded through her head. If anything had happened to her mother, she would spend the rest of her life alone. No one would want the stigma associated with her to bleed over.

All she could cling to right now was the knowledge that her mother had lied to the Dark Lord, and in so doing had saved Potter's life. Her mother had never done anything to Potter, never insulted his friends, never attacked anyone Potter cared about . . . so maybe Potter would be merciful enough to spare her life.

Realizing that her hopes rested on Potter, of all people, made it feel like someone had scratched her eyes. Because she wasn't crying. She was too drained, too tired, too much of a Malfoy to cry about possibilities.

Malfoys don't sit on the floor, feeling sorry for themselves.

Delphine's teeth sank into her lower lip so harshly that she was genuinely surprised it didn't split. _Get off the floor, Delphine!_ She rubbed her fists against her eyes, just once, and then took a deep breath. The rough stone was even more uncomfortable than the pathetic excuse for a bed. She had never been someone who avoided creature comforts, even inadequate ones.

Before Delphine could push herself to her feet, the door to her cell opened. She fell backwards, head smacking against the stone floor hard enough to ache, but not bruise. She flushed at being caught unawares, at allowing her thoughts to get so loud that she didn't hear anyone walking down the hallway.

The first thing she heard was laughter, and the first thing she saw was Harry Potter's stupid scar. It took her a moment to realize that Potter was not, in fact, the person laughing. In reality, Potter looked irritated with his companion—a wizard she didn't recognize in Auror's robes.

"Finally figured out where you belong, then?" the man asked, before snorting. He had large jowls that wobbled as he spoke. "At Potter's feet!"

"Don't be ridiculous!" Potter snapped, lips pulled into the grimace Delphine had only ever seen aimed at herself or Snape.

The man silenced immediately, before grinning wickedly. "Right, she's not even worthy of that. Death Eater scum." The man spat at her, but for reasons Delphine couldn't bother to try and understand, Potter Summoned her out of the way. It likely had something to do with being a Gryffindor and would never make sense to her. The man stared from the spit on the floor, to her, and then Potter. "What?"

Delphine clambered to her feet behind Potter, wincing as the cold, rough stone leeched away what little warmth she had retained. When Potter cast a warming charm on her a moment later, she jerked her head up in disbelief. Her hair tumbled forward, covering her eyes, but she didn't miss the apologetic smile on Potter's face or the determined light in his eyes.

What was Potter playing at? She didn't know, but she had no problems using Potter as a saliva shield while he did it.

"Leave her alone," Potter growled.

The Auror's eyes widened and his jowls jiggled. "You can't be serious, Mr. Potter. She's a _Malfoy_." It came out in exactly the same tone Delphine had used countless times to spit the word 'Mudblood.' Delphine's eyes narrowed at the man, and her hands fisted in the back of Potter's robes without a second thought.

"In case you missed the memo," Potter said slowly, as if he were addressing Crabbe or Goyle, "the Malfoys are the only reason I'm _alive_."

While the Auror spluttered, Delphine stared at the back of Potter's head without blinking. She knew that, of course, but Potter didn't owe them anything. He had saved Delphine from the Fiendfyre and their family from Voldemort, which countered her lie at Malfoy Manor and her mother's lie in the Forbidden Forest. All existing debts were null and void.

Potter turned his head, glanced over his shoulder, and then nodded down the hall. "Come on, Delphine. Time for your trial."

Delphine twitched as her first name came from Potter's lips. She could only remember hearing it once before: when Potter taunted the Dark Lord about wand ownership.

She stumbled when Potter started walking, because her hands were still knotted in Potter's robes. Potter reached back and caught her before she could send them tumbling to the floor. "All right?" Potter asked.

"Mr. Potter, I think it would be safer if you stepped away from the criminal before she attempts to kill you," the Auror said.

Delphine glared viciously at the man and didn't stop the sneer from overtaking her face. Despite popular belief, she wasn't a bloody murderer. And even if she were, she wasn't stupid enough to think she could defeat Harry Potter when the Dark Lord had failed. Besides—

"If I can't protect myself against an unarmed witch, I don't deserve to live," Potter snapped, patience clearly at an end. Delphine wondered how long Potter had been around the imbecile, because his ability to control his temper was usually much better in Delphine's experience.

She absolutely refused to allow the knowledge that she was defenseless and outmatched to bother her. If Potter hadn't come with the bastard, she might not have made it to her trial at all. She could already see the headlines: Death Eater dies in cell while awaiting trial!

"Mr. Potter!" The man was pale, shaking, as if the mere thought of Potter dying would mean the end of the world . . . which it just might if recent events were to be believed. Not that Delphine subscribed to such foolishness of course. Just because Potter had defeated the Dark Lord didn't mean he was _essential_, or anything.

Potter made an inarticulate sound of annoyance. "What could she possibly do? Start secreting poison from her pores? Bash me over the head with an invisible rock she imagined into existence? Just"—Potter suddenly twisted around, grabbing Delphine's hand and yanking her forward—"shut up!"

As Potter marched Delphine past the Auror and down the hallway, Delphine couldn't tear her gaze away from Potter's left hand. It was tan, rough, and too dry. He needed to use lotion. But that wasn't what held Delphine's attention. Potter was holding her hand, the exact same one he had rejected almost seven years ago.

She didn't know why, but it seemed important.

"All right, Delphine?"

Delphine's gaze traveled up from their twined hands to lock on Potter's face. No, she wasn't all right. She was heading towards her inevitable death. She didn't know what had happened to her mother, and her fate rested on the mercy of others. She had no chance. However, for some inexplicable reason, the solemnity and strength of Potter's face kept her mouth shut and caused her head to bob.

Tightening his grip, Potter smiled. "Good. This shouldn't take long."

What shouldn't take long? For the Wizengamot to sentence her to Azkaban? The Kiss? The trip to the courtroom? Questions raced through her mind, but Delphine didn't voice any of them. She was too busy watching Potter's back and attempting not to trip on the too long robes. Crashing to the rough floor twice was more than enough for one day.

She grimaced, but couldn't look away. Potter seemed taller for some reason, which made no sense. _Bigger, stronger, as if . . . well, as if he had defeated his parents' murderer_, Delphine thought wryly.

Before now, Potter had always been small, thin, more of a ghost than a wizard. He danced along the edges of crowds, only seeming to come to life for Quidditch matches or to verbally spar against Snape or Delphine herself. He lived on adventure, thrill, but only when someone could make him come to life. Even when Delphine had loathed Potter, which she didn't anymore—Potter _had_ saved Delphine's family when none of them could—she had viciously coveted the knowledge that she could bring Potter back from the illusory, transparent manner in which he lived.

Not even the Mudblood or Weasel could make Harry Potter corporeal. Delphine could.

Noise began to echo down the hallway, whichever one they were in now, and Delphine lifted her head. It only took a moment to realize the noise consisted of voices—many voices. Tall wooden doors, marked with what appeared to be curse-fire, opened as they approached.

Then the nightmare began.

Lights flashed, cameras taking photographs of her shame to plaster all over the front pages. She winced. She knew how horrific she looked, how imperfect and—she raised a hand to her throat, but it caused her sleeve to slip back and reveal the Dark Mark. Inside her head, she was weeping, breaking, unable to figure out what she should do.

"Back up!" Potter ordered while glaring at the press and the Auror accompanying them. The man really was a useless load of rubbish, Delphine thought. Bigoted ba—Delphine inhaled deeply and lowered her arm, staring straight ahead aimlessly. In light of what the Death Eaters had done, even she had to acknowledge that the Auror's hatred of the Dark Lord's servants made sense.

"Miss Malfoy, now that your father's in Azkaban—"

"Miss Malfoy, do you think the Wizengamot will—?"

"How many people have you killed, Miss Malfoy?"

"Is it true that—?"

Potter's grip on her hand was fierce now, as if he thought the reporters would turn into a herd of Thestrals and attack them, looking for their next meal. With the way the press was eying her, Delphine didn't doubt it for a moment, and squeezed Potter's hand just as tightly.

She tuned out the questions as best as she could as they pushed forward, several Aurors having finally stepped forward to move the monsters back. Delphine was positive it had nothing to do with her and everything to do with Potter being at her side. Well, that was fine with her. She had nothing against using Potter as a living shield.

Just as Potter didn't seem to have anything against protecting her.

"Miss Malfoy, how does it feel knowing that your mother cannot be present because her house arrest isn't over?"

Delphine froze in place, and she wondered for a moment if someone had Petrified her. Her mother was under house arrest? She wasn't in Azkaban? She was alive and safe? Her breath hitched in her throat, and she started tumbling forward, since Potter hadn't stopped moving. Before she could smash into Potter's back, though, Potter turned swiftly and caught her.

Staring up at Potter, Delphine tried to force her question into her eyes, but she didn't need to, because Potter instantly leaned forward and whispered in her ear, "She's safe."

Her free hand fisted in Potter's robes. The Malfoy fortune wouldn't have meant anything to the Wizengamot, or the new Minister. That meant she had been found innocent. She had likely been placed under house arrest for consorting with Death Eaters, but she was _alive_. That's all Delphine cared about. Even if she died today, her mother would live. That made all the fear and pain worth it.

Potter's breath tickled her ear, and shivers sped down her spine. Potter's eyes narrowed at that, but Delphine didn't break their gaze. Her mother had taught her to appreciate power and honor, and, loath as she would have been to admit it days ago, Potter obviously possessed both.

"Let's get this over with," Potter said. His fingers curled—possessively?—around Delphine's again and then they shoved their way to the front of the chamber.

A chair with manacles sat before the Wizengamot, and Delphine swallowed roughly when Potter pushed her down into it with an apologetic quirk of his lips. She forced herself not to panic when the manacles bound her to the chair. She kept her calm only because Potter stood beside her like a silent sentry.

A loud bang echoed in the room, and then everyone fell silent and claimed seats. As Delphine turned her head to stare at the new Minister for Magic—what was his name again?—she held onto the knowledge that she had never killed or tortured anyone.

Perhaps, just perhaps, she would escape this room with her life.

"We've gathered today, May 18, 1999, for the trial of Delphine Lysandra Malfoy. Miss Malfoy, the charges read as followed: consorting with the Dark Lord, knowingly joining the Dark Lord, conspiring to allow Death Eaters into Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Second Degree Murder of Albus Dumbledore . . ."

The Minister continued to read from a massive scroll, but everything he said after the word "murder" was indistinguishable. Yes, she had let the Death Eaters into Hogwarts. Yes, she had Disarmed the Headmaster, but that didn't make her a murderess, did it? Her breathing quickened and black spots danced before her eyes. Was she a murderess? Did Potter think she had—a hand landed on her shoulder.

A quick glance to her left proved all she needed to know. Potter knew she hadn't done it. In fact, Potter appeared to grow increasingly aggravated with every crime listed. Then again, it did sound like they were attempting to pin everything they hadn't already caught someone else for on her. How could she have possibly tortured and killed four Muggles while simultaneously staring into Potter's face at Malfoy Manor and saying, "I can't be sure"?

They were grasping at broken wands, and even after she was cleared for those crimes, she knew the taint of suspicion would never fade.

"How do you plead?" the Minister asked. His voice was firm, but not unkind. It was neutral, if voices could possibly be such.

Everyone stared at her, reporters with their quills poised, Wizengamot members over their glasses or down their noses. She closed her eyes and bit her tongue. As if they didn't know! How dare they just sit there and pretend that they don't know a thing about it?

As if she weren't defective enough already, they had to play ignorant. Well, fine then, she could do this. She was a Malfoy, not a coward. She refused to give her self-respect to them.

Delphine narrowed her eyes, clenched her jaw, and then raised her head, making the hideous scar on her neck perfectly visible. Gasps sounded through the room, followed by more questions from the reporters, smirks and sneers, and cries of delight from various others.

"Order!"

The scar was jagged, slicing across her throat, and she remembered the searing agony that had accompanied it. One of the Dark Cutting Curses had almost severed her head from her body. The surviving Death Eaters had not been pleased when they discovered her mother had lied about Potter's death.

And though it had been healed, eventually—injured Death Eaters ranked low on the list; who cared if they died?—the spell had irreparably damaged her vocal cords. And then, of course, there was no dittany to spare for a Death Eater. She had heard the Healer mutter more than once that she should be disfigured forever, so that everyone would know what she had done.

When the furor quieted, the Minister gestured at one of the Aurors along the far wall. The man was of medium height, with brown hair and a wide nose. Delphine couldn't ever remember having seen him before. "Please perform the Mind-Joining Spell on Miss Malfoy."

Delphine could feel the blood drain from her face. It was a Healer spell usually performed on unconscious patients, allowing the Healer to enter their minds and interact with them. It was a high-level spell and more restricted that Legilimency. A Healer had to have a permit to perform it, as well as swear an Unbreakable Oath to never use the spell without authorization. Even though it was the only way she would be able to answer any questions, it was impossible to lie in the mindscape, she didn't want a stranger rooting around in her head. The man could misrepresent any information he found.

Shivering, Delphine turned beseeching eyes on Potter: the only person outside her mother she would willingly let in her head. Potter was too much of a Gryffindor, too honorable, to intentionally misinterpret Delphine's answers.

"Minister, I'd like to be the one who verifies Delphine Malfoy's answers," Potter said, brash and straightforward. "Just to make sure there aren't any errors, of course."

The unknown Auror bristled at the slight, but obediently performed the spell on Delphine and Potter when the Minister gave his approval.

Having Potter—_Harry_, the voice whispered firmly—inside her head, was unnerving. She had clung to the Occlumency barriers her Aunt Bellatrix had beaten into her for almost two years now; they were all that had kept her safe. Now Potter was inside them as if they didn't exist at all, though she could still feel them there, encasing her mind.

"Miss Malfoy, we're going to ask you a few questions to ensure the spell is working. I want you to answer this honestly. Is your name Delphine Lysandra Malfoy?" the Minister asked.

_Yes, of course it is_. Her mindscape shone a vibrant shade of blue. Interesting. It reminded her of her mother's eyes.

"Mr. Potter?"

"Blue, sir."

"Very well, that's correct so far. Now, Miss Malfoy, lie to this question. Are you of age?"

_No, my birthday won't be for another two weeks or so_. Her mind turned a sickly-green, reminiscent of the Killing Curse, and both she and Pot—_Harry!_—flinched in her head.

"Mr. Potter?"

Harry's hand on her shoulder tightened, almost drawing her out of her mindscape. "Green, sir."

"Oh, yes, of course!" the Minister said, the neutrality of his voice shifting towards sympathy that Delphine knew wasn't for her. "Are you ready to proceed?"

"Yes," Potter answered for both of them.

"Then I ask again, Miss Malfoy, how do you plead?" the Minister—_Shacklebolt_, Harry supplied—asked.

_I let the Death Eaters into Hogwarts. I took the Mark under duress. I served the Dark Lord unwillingly. I . . ._ Delphine concentrated and pushed images at Potter, proof of her words, all bathed in a sapphire glow.

"Not guilty, Minister," Po-Harry said.

That caused a loud ruckus, but Delphine ignored it, focusing on each question thrown at her. Had she ever tortured Muggles? _No!_ Had she ever killed anyone? _No!_ Where was she on the night of . . . ? It went on and on forever.

The longer the interrogation continued, the more agitated they both became. Delphine had not pillaged, or plundered! An image of Delphine resembling Mad-Eye Moody with a green bird on her shoulder came through the link from Harry and confused her for a moment. But then Harry sent information on pirates, and Delphine sniggered as she pictured Harry in an old-fashioned dress with frills and lace.

It only took a single question to destroy the amusing image. "Miss Malfoy, did you take the Dark Mark of your own free will?"

_No. But yes._ She saw, for the first time, a wash of turquoise.

"Both yes and no become blue-green, Minister," Harry said. The generic color description was inaccurate, but Delphine didn't really expect a Gryffindor to know the difference.

"I see." Delphine could feel the Minister's eyes boring into her; it was an uncomfortable sensation, but she had felt worse ones so many times over the past two years that it didn't even compare. "Let's try to narrow this down, then. Miss Malfoy, did you fight You-Know-Who when he attempted to give you the Dark Mark?"

"No," Harry said instantly.

"So you stood there and accepted it?"

_Knelt on the floor and tried not to scream, you mean_. Delphine's muscles knotted as phantom pain sang along her nerves. It had hurt worse than the Cruciatus Curse.

"Yes," Harry said, thumb rubbing soothingly along Delphine's shoulder.

"And why is that, Miss Malfoy? You proved earlier that you never agreed with You-Know-Who's agenda, so why join him?"

Narcissa Malfoy lay on a stone floor, a massive bruise blossoming across her cheek. Wands from various hands cast curses around her as she rolled to dodge them. The Dark Lord ranted about Lucius's failures in the background, spitting vitriol and promising death.

"To save mother," Harry answered. His voice was rough, pained, but sure. "He was going to kill her if I didn't."

And then a beautiful woman with red hair, begging desperately, and a flash of green light replaced Narcissa in Delphine's head—proof that Harry had lost his mother to the same monster and understood the decision she had made.

The reporters burst into a flurry of questions, spewing one after the other, but she paid them no mind. Let them think what they wanted and write what they wished—it's what they would do either way. An image of hawks swooping down on unsuspecting mice (the reporters' faces were on hawks' bodies and Harry and Delphine were the mice) surfaced. Delphine nodded in fervent agreement.

"Silence!" It was too loud, too vicious, and trapped in her head as she was, for one endless moment Delphine thought the Dark Lord had spoken. And then she heard Potter shout _Expelliarmus_ and saw the Dark Lord fall one more time. Dead. The Dark Lord was dead—right.

She unconsciously leaned closer to Harry, until her shoulder pressed against Harry's hip. That destroyed the remnants of panic that had been attempting to control her. Instinct wasn't easy to fight, and hers had kept her alive far too long for her to discount them now. That tone of voice equaled the Dark Lord and abasement as far as her muscle memory was concerned.

The questions after that were rapid-fire, even more relentless than before. If her mother hadn't been threatened, would she have joined the Dark Lord? _No!_ If Severus Snape hadn't done it, would she have killed Albus Dumbledore? _No!_ If she had—? Would she have—? Did she ever—? If she could—? Why didn't she—?

Until they finally stopped.

"The trial will break for one hour while the Wizengamot convenes and discusses all that we've learned today," Minister Shacklebolt said.

More than anything, Delphine wanted to heave a heavy sigh and collapse back against the wooden chair. She didn't. She had held it together this long, and she could keep her cool as long as it was necessary. She waited for the manacles to release her and then stood, wincing when her sore muscles stretched. The floor had to be more comfortable than that torture device!

Harry nodded, and Delphine's vision swam with dizziness as an image of Harry sitting in that same chair—younger, manacles open—before the entire Wizengamot flashed through her mind. It was easier to process the images while remaining still; the extra movement disoriented her, but she conquered it.

"Lunch?" Harry asked, head tilted to the side, hair shifting to cover his scar. He smiled when Delphine agreed emphatically in her mind. She was starving. It had been hours since they had given her a measly bowl of porridge. "Famished," Harry said, hand clasped around Delphine's and leading her toward a side door.

They both decided to ignore the Auror escort. Delphine was just pleased the bigoted saliva monster didn't join them.

"Mr. Potter, why have you offered to verify Miss Malfoy's statements?"

"Do you believe the Death Eater is—?"

"Miss Malfoy, since your father's been sentenced to life in Azkaban—?"

"Mr. Potter, why are you holding Miss Malfoy's hand? Are you two—?"

Delphine waited for Harry to pull away from her as that question drowned out the others, but he didn't. Harry just squeezed her hand and kept walking, refusing to answer any of the questions. Delphine still wasn't sure why they were asking her questions, because she obviously couldn't answer, she thought bitterly. And Harry had never pandered to the press.

_They're idiots_, Harry whispered in her mind. _Liars_. Images flashed past, articles from their fourth year, during the Triwizard Tournament, and Delphine could see exactly how each one was a lie. All the defaming pieces during fifth year, when the Ministry had attacked Harry and Dumbledore, followed.

It was easy to see why Harry disliked reporters of any kind.

The reporters' eyes narrowed on them, mouths opening and tongues flapping with endless questions, but they all remained unanswered. It was almost as if the press thought they could see the answers floating through their bloodstreams, but neither of them was transparent enough for answers to magically appear.

Harry glanced back at her when that thought passed through her mind, eyebrow cocked. Then images flooded through her—images of him walking down hallways, attending classes, but never really _there_. Then once Harry and she began bickering, they both snapped into existence.

She had known, of course, that she had sought Harry out over the years. Apparently, Harry had done the same to her. Both of them had felt somewhat disconnected from the world around them, only feeling truly alive and real when the other was present.

As they stepped into a side room, another image came; this one was vibrantly bright, not the least bit fuzzy, even around the edges. Harry was kneeling on the floor in Malfoy Manor as Delphine huddled away from Fenrir Greyback and moved around, staring into the fire listlessly. She might have been physically present, but she wasn't _there_, and Harry had noticed the difference.

_Then why?_ Delphine brought up the image of Harry rejecting her friendship years ago, spurning her for a Weasley.

Harry stayed silent as they sat around a small table. A house-elf appeared and delivered covered trays, and Delphine ate mechanically, not even tasting the food. She couldn't even remember what she ate, because all her attention was focused inward.

Life before Hogwarts had been mostly boring for Delphine. She had hoped to be challenged, to make a real friend, and she had wanted Harry Potter to be that friend. Only, Harry Potter hadn't wanted her, and she hadn't been able to deal with that. It was the first time Delphine had ever tried to do something as herself, as Delphine Malfoy, instead of as the Malfoy Heiress or her father's daughter.

Wincing, Harry ducked his head, and the motion caused Delphine to surface for just a moment. She blinked, and then memories assaulted her. Three Muggles—_The Dursleys_, Harry said—made Harry do chores, sit in his room and do nothing, be normal. _They wanted me to be normal, and you were too . . ._ Then Delphine saw herself through Harry's eyes at age eleven: bright eyes and strong posture. She looked _alive_.

"I wasn't supposed to want that," Harry whispered. "Ron was safe. I didn't even realize how much I was letting them influence me until our second year, and then it was too late." Those words yanked Delphine from her head, and her arm stopped moving, holding a sandwich just before her open mouth. Harry's green eyes, large behind the hideous glasses, shone with regret and acceptance.

_Why aren't Weasley and Granger here?_ Delphine asked. She found their real names unpalatable, but she didn't want to offend Harry now—not when she was finally starting to understand. They would want to be present when she got publicly humiliated.

Harry's hands curled around a glass of pumpkin juice. "They went to find Hermione's parents in Australia. She Obliviated and hid them there to keep them safe."

Delphine set the sandwich down on her plate, because talking with your mouth full was rude, even if such talking didn't actually involve her mouth. She didn't want to push, and it was none of her business . . . except that it was. Because everything that related to Harry was her business. _The girl Weasley?_

Sighing, Harry rubbed the back of his neck, and then met Delphine's gaze head-on. "She was safe."

The past tense verb made something fierce and delighted swell in Delphine's chest. She likened it to the fantasies where she grabbed the Snitch just before Harry. That vicious sense of winning, of snatching victory from the hands of your opponent, shocked her. Because she hadn't realized, until that exact moment, that she viewed the girl Weasley as an opponent.

As that realization settled in, she felt an identical sense of victory from Harry. The only thing that could tear her eyes away from that lopsided smile was one of the Aurors announcing that the Wizengamot was ready to reconvene and their hour was up.

When Delphine stood, she waited a moment before offering her hand to Harry. She knew that this time it wouldn't be rejected. They might have fought the need for years, but they were done with that now. It was time for them to stop skirting the edge of reality and firmly insert themselves in it.

"Let's do this." Harry grasped her hand firmly, and led them back into the overcrowded courtroom.

As they marched past the crowd of reporters again, Delphine couldn't stop the mental flinch. She knew that no matter what the Wizengamot ruled, suspicions were not so easily brushed aside. She would never be anything more than a Death Eater in their eyes. A villain that was stupid enough to get caught and deserved every bit of ill will that came her way.

She sat back down on the torture chair, her shoulders so tight she felt the muscles spasm, but she was Delphine Malfoy and she would not show fear. Their decision was already made and nothing would change it.

"Order!" The Minister for Magic peered down at her, his face a perfect mask of solemnity. "On the count of willfully torturing and murdering four Muggles on March 28, 1998, the Wizengamot finds Delphine Malfoy not guilty. On the count of . . ."

One false charge after another was dismissed in the same manner, and she relaxed just enough to lean against Harry once again. Then the final charge came, the one she was most worried about. She wanted nothing more than to fist her hands in the bland, ill-fitting white robes, but she didn't. She wouldn't show even that much emotion to the ravaging herd of Thestrals masquerading as humans with quills and cameras.

"On the count of willfully joining and serving You-Know-Who, the Wizengamot finds Delphine Malfoy"—please, just once, let something turn out right in her life—"not guilty." She almost collapsed from sheer relief. "However, Miss Malfoy, you will be unable to visit your mother or her place of house arrest, Malfoy Manor, until such time as she has completed her sentence."

What? She couldn't see her mother? That was— _For how long?_

"She'll be free in three months."

That was certainly better than never seeing her again; she could wait that long, if she must. Her mind turned to more practical matters. _What am I going to do? Where am I going to live?_

"With me, of course," Harry said as he clapped Delphine on the shoulder and grinned.

_Are you sure?_ she asked. She certainly didn't mind staying with Harry. In fact, she thought she might like it—a lot. There was something here she needed to explore and solidify, something related to the knowledge that she had beaten the girl Weasley.

"Definitely." Harry nodded, and then there was a weird dissolving feeling in her mind. Harry's presence misted away, leaving her alone in her head. It felt wrong, empty somehow, which made absolutely no sense seeing as she had been alone in her head her entire life. When her aunt wasn't forcing her way inside to _teach_ Delphina Occlumency, of course.

A glance to the left revealed that same brown-haired, boring Auror who had cast the spell. His wand was lowering, and Delphine wished for an irrational moment that he had never canceled it. There was something comforting about having Harry in her head and knowing they could only speak honestly. There was no room for misinterpretation, so neither of them could stuff it up.

Before the tsunami of reporters could converge on them, Harry grabbed Delphine and then removed a chain from his pocket. He wrapped it around both of their hands and then muttered, "Padfoot." The hooking sensation behind her stomach was stronger than ever before, likely because the Portkey was taking them through layers of wards. Then, suddenly, they landed in a foyer.

The floor was a nice hardwood, ebony, and the walls bore tasteful wallpaper and decorations. Her curiosity rose as she moved down a hallway and into a drawing room. The furnishings were nice, stylish, but not prissy, and she knew without having to ask that Harry had chosen them.

"Welcome to the House of Black," Harry said, hand waving grandly. "The house-elves just finished fixing it up. Do you like it?" He was rubbing the back of his neck as he glanced around nervously, as if he thought the place wouldn't meet Delphine's exacting standards.

Delphine discarded the revelation that this was the Black ancestral home. That didn't matter. What mattered was the anxious look hidden in Harry's eyes. True, the house might not be as grand as Malfoy Manor, but it was comfortable, safe, and infinitely better than the cell she had been living in for weeks.

Nodding, Delphine rubbed her bare feet against a throw rug resting before the fireplace. It was soft against her skin, and her eyes closed at the pleasurable sensation. When she opened them moments later, Harry stood before her, eyes alight with fiery life. A tanned, rough hand rose to cup her cheek. "Would you like a bath?" Harry asked.

Decorum fled as Delphine nodded frantically. Weeks of nothing but occasional cleaning charms from the pinch-lipped witch had left her feeling disgusting. She would _kill_—okay, so she wouldn't—to soak in a warm bath and wash her filthy hair.

Harry grinned widely at her and then headed out of the room, beckoning Delphine to follow. "Come on, then. The master bathroom's brilliant. I've got a tub as big as the one in the prefect's bathroom at Hogwarts!" Delphine was only skeptical until she saw it; it was as big as the one at Hogwarts, perhaps even a little larger.

"I'll be just outside," said Harry. "Knock on the wall or floor if you need anything."

Delphine nodded, and then shucked the prisoner garb once the door closed. The bathtub was full, steam rising off the surface. Bubbles covered it in mounds, seeming like an immense luxury after weeks of cleaning slid into the depths and grinned her delight before scrubbing at her skin.

"I'm glad you're here," Harry said through the door. "I had hoped . . ."

He fell silent, and Delphine found she couldn't look away from the door she hadn't even bothered to lock. When had she come to trust Harry Potter? Before today, she never even would have thought of bathing in an unlocked bathroom, especially with an unmarried male in the next chamber.

"I never thought you would actually be here," he breathed.

His voice bore a thick layer of longing that ignited the feelings she had long thought buried. To hear that Harry Potter, of all people, had dreamed of her being in his home—it was overwhelming. Delphine lifted shaky arms to wash her hair, ears straining to hear anything else her host might utter.

"But I dreamt it. Merlin, I've dreamt it for so long."

Delphine flushed and rinsed off before exiting the bath. A house-elf appeared and offered her a feminine bathrobe before vanishing. It was the same color as her eyes. Had Harry been planning to bring her here? She could tell it hadn't been worn, and she couldn't think of another reason for him to have a witch's robe. She wrapped it around herself, tied it, and then stared at herself in the mirror; it was, thankfully, silent. She knew she was thinner than before, but not grotesquely so. It wouldn't take an inordinate amount of time to regain her figure.

Harry's head thunked back against the door. "You're so beautiful," he whispered. She could tell by the distant tone to his voice that he hadn't meant for her to hear that, but it made her smile all the more because of it.

As Delphine twisted the knob and opened the door, Harry leapt to his feet. His gaze skimmed her body, and when his green eyes locked on her face, they spoke of his desire. Even skinny and Marked, with wet hair and no glamour charms, he still wanted her. She had thought her chances for a future, a husband, children—all of it—had died the moment Voldemort did, if not before.

Steady as a rock, Harry offered his left hand to her. Her hawthorn wand rested on his open palm. Returning a pureblood witch's wand, once captured, was the oldest form of marriage proposal in the wizarding world. It said: _I've defeated you in battle. I'm strong enough to defend you and our children_. But did he know that?

Delphine tilted her head and quirked an eyebrow.

"Yes," said Harry. "I know what I'm offering."

She stared at it, but didn't take it. Why her? Why now? Just—why?

"You're alive. You make me feel. And you were willing to do anything to keep your family safe. As the only surviving member of a family that honors such a trait, I can't help but be drawn to you even more than before," he confessed.

_Even more?_ she mouthed.

Harry chuckled. "Yes. Even when I thought you were an evil Death Eater"—she flinched—"I couldn't stay away. You're captivating, Delphine. Why do you think I spent all of sixth year following you around? Only part of it was because I thought you were up to no good. The rest—well, I just wanted to be around you." He flushed.

Satisfied with the explanation, Delphine leaned up and kissed his cheek. She couldn't imagine a future without Harry Potter in it. Both of them would fade away without the other's constant presence. So, decision made, Delphine chose her destiny and took back her wand.


End file.
